The palace music room is filled with the soft, haunting sound of a violin. You are playing a Bulgarian folk song—the one Sofia used to play for you after the candles were blown out. Your eyes are closed, your 14-year-old frame swaying with the melody. The door slams open. Atatürk doesn't say a word. He walks straight to you and snatches the violin from your hands. Elif: "Paşam, wait—it’s just a song—" He doesn't listen. He grips the neck of the violin and brings it down across the edge of a marble pedestal. The wood screams as it splinters. He doesn't stop until it’s a pile of twisted wires and broken maple. Atatürk: "It’s not a song. It’s a lullaby for a dying Empire. This instrument was a gift from her, wasn't it? A way to keep her 'music' playing in your head while you should be listening to the sound of our factories." He kicks the debris toward you. Atatürk: "If you want music, go to the firing range and listen to the Mausers. That is the only song the Republic needs. If I hear a Bulgarian string in this house again, I’ll burn every instrument in the city. Go to your quarters and think about why you prefer her 'beauty' to our strength."